


Burning of England

by Neunte



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alive Burning, Angst, Betrayal, Family, Fire, Friendship, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Torture, Witch Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-03-17 23:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3547004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neunte/pseuds/Neunte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year of 1666, is when the infamous London Fire happened. And this is what England experienced. What would his brother, Scotland Wales and Ireland do when they found him broken and wounded?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Witch

"Ya' all fools." He spat in disgust. His golden hair shone lightly in the pale moonlight as his emerald green eyes burned with hate, and oddly betrayal and hurt. His arms and body hurt from the torture he went through, the thick rope that was tied around his midsection was suffocating-almost similar to a corset but covering less area. His blonde hair is greasy and dirty, matted with blood and water. Bruises decorated his sunken pale face like in a macabre painting, under his eyes were dark bags from stress.

"Burn the witch…?" He scoffed, "How many times do I have to tell you that I am  _not._ " His authoritative voice cut through the shouts and chants for his death. Death of the  _witch_ , he thought darkly.

He felt the pain for when they started throwing sticks and stones at him, stabbing and injuring him with whatever they have in hand. It all left him bleeding and hurt, only for the wounds to regenerate in a minute.

"Quit your yammering  _witch_." The man at the front smirked arrogantly while emphasizing on the last word to mock the 'witch' that is tied to the stake. "As if a being who lived for millennials could be no witch."

The 'witch' glared at the man, he was the one that had given information of him to those…fanatics, his previous butler.

It is the year 1666, the number of witch trials were declining but had not removed itself from the people's mind, completely.

_It was a beautiful Monday morning, and Arthur was having his steamy cup of Earl Grey before a large noise resounded in the mansion. It was as if someone- or a group of people are trying to break into the mansion by force._

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

_It seemed that they are using a log, how unrefined, Arthur thought._

_Arthur placed down his cup of tea and stood up warily. What was happening? He immediately closed his eyes to concentrate, sensing his servants rushing around trying to…escape. And there were some, no, a whole gang of villagers breaking into the mansion.  
_

_He knew that this is going to happen somehow as his mansion is located near the countryside, but this is ridiculous._

_His hand hovered over his rapier which is hidden under his coat, wondering it was needed or not._

_He quickly turned around and ran through a secret passage just before the door to his office was broken down, a large group of men charged in. Searching for the blonde haired noble, they looked in each and every corner of the room but there was no noble in their sight._

_One of the men observed the wall behind the grand mahogany table, it felt hollow. As if one had carved into it. His eyes widened and ran towards the direction of the wall, or perhaps, a secret passage._

_Pushing against where it caved in, the door to the secret passage groaned and slid open to reveal a long flight of spiraling staircase. He immediately called his comrades, shouting for them to follow him. Dark shadows swirled around the men threateningly, but they paid no heed as the rushed down the stairs._

_As for Arthur, he ran and ran down the flight of cemented stairs. His shoes created a 'click-clack' sound every time it made contact with the floor. His expensive black coat billowed from the strength the wind, the white patterns standing out. His once perfectly-combed air is now disheveled and windswept._

_His eyebrows are knitted together in worry and slight fear when he heard the door to his secret passage creak open. Followed by the yelling of the man that had-apparently-found it._

_He breathing is short and fast, a ball of sweat rolled down his face. He could hear his heartbeat in his ear, and in the background are the shouting of the men._

_Ah…where is it? He fumbled through the folds of his clothes, trying to find the metal key that he always have on his person. Just. Where. Is. It?!_

_When he felt something hard and cold against hip and felt rather stupid. Shaking his head, he unclasped the chain from his trousers and unlocked the other door._

_He twisted the key in the keyhole but the locking bar did not loosen its hold on the shackle. He then threw the key onto the floor in frustration._

_His eyes widened in fear when he heard the sound of a shoe against the surface of the floor._ _A man huffed and smirked, "Nowhere to run now…you witch."_

_"_ _Witch…?!' Arthur thought, his hand quickly went to the hilt of his rapier. His hand gripped the golden grip of the rapier, unsheathing it as silently as possible._ _Before he could act, they got hold of his limbs and forced him down. "Let me go! You barbarian!" He shouted. One of them brought in a coil of thick rope._

_"_ _Just what are you…!" A piece of cloth was forced into his mouth- and thus gagging him. His wrists were tied together and so are his ankles._

_The last thing he witnessed was the smirking face of his butler before he was knocked unconscious and hoisted up._

"I am not." He denied weakly.

"How about you just admit it? Is not the time to be stubborn, _Lord Kirkland_." Arthur looked down at the man. He had made a big, big mistake adopting him. Disgusting…

"You disgusting…" Arthur started but was then cut off by the men.

"Enough chit-chattering! We cannot let the witch live on any longer. Burn him!" They started chanting. "Burn him. Burn the witch!"

Some lit the fire, and he could feel the heat just right underneath his soles. The fire licked at his bare feet, burning away the skin. He screamed in pain, his sound hoarse, towards the sky as the fire slowly consumed his feet. The ripped hem of his black trousers caught fire, the orange fire became more magnificent, and like a blooming flower it slowly coiled around his shin.

He could not cry, as his tears had long dried away. He could only scream, scream till his throat is bleeding and used. His screamed pierced through the chants for the death of the witch like a banshee's predicting a death which ironically, is his.

His scream soon diminished into pathetic half-choked out sobs and pleads for what is unknown. His legs burnt, his skin crumbled and burnt, turning black, red and bloody. He screamed loudly in pain, the few weak-hearted women in houses whimpered started praying, for the man's suffering to be over.

The men stepped back several steps due to the nauseating scent of burnt flesh, like charcoal but somehow…sweet. Whether it is a hallucination or illusion created by their sick mind or whatever, they cheered as the fire consumed nearly half of the body.

Arthur knew he is going to be revived again, perhaps in several days, or even mere hours. He did not care anymore.

Briefly, he remembered a familiar image of a person he once knew. It is fuzzy, but the bright red hair still stood out prominently.

Tears streaked down his cheeks and his mouth moved to form a word yet nothing came out, before even his head was consumed by the wild fire.


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England was found half-dead on one of his dock. And Scotland finally realizes something is wrong. Wales and Northern Ireland remains apathetic, or not.

At the same night, a great fire, burning bright and high, raged through the capital city of England, London. The city was swallowed in bright orange flames, towering over the city like a great demon getting himself ready to crash down on the city. The fire was so tall, so tall that it almost had the moon covered.

Down in the city, screams resounded, things were run over, children were crying and people are running from the fire. A lone child stared fearfully at the great fire, greedily swallowing up over half of the city before he disappeared under the debris like many others.

People tried to dodge the falling wood and burning objects left and right, screaming and crying for help. To whom? No one would answer them, not one could hear them neither were the skies. The usual rain clouds too abandoned them, instead of pouring rain, they flew by idly.

The children's cries were smothered by their frantic mothers, who are running, running to where? The exit which were far from them? Much too far for their weak limbs to run to. They might not make it. The river, perhaps? In their desperate, fear - clouded minds, they did what their instinct called for them to do. All their little bits of intelligence were shoved to the back of their minds, hidden, pushed back by fear.

They ran from the fire, yet looking back at the same time in curiosity and wonder. The sight was mesmerizing, beautiful even. If not for the stench of burning corpse suturing the air and the crumbling buildings that are burnt darker than black.

They ran, ran and ran. All were instinct, instinct to save themselves and they loved ones blared in their mind.

They stepped on and over jagged stones, their clothes and shoes torn or missing but they did not stop running. Even when all they could hear were screams of those who are in need of help, even if all they see were tears of those who lost their family, of those that betrayed and those that are betrayed.

Humans are weak creatures.

They react on their instinct to survive, to shy away from potential danger, to ignore the festering corruption to preserve their normalcy.

And that, is how the survivors got through the four days of fire.

* * *

In Scotland, a red-haired man jolted awake. Something is wrong. Very wrong. There was a sense of dread that settled in his chest, persistently tugging at his heart. Something is so very wrong. He felt that he should do something. He should find something, or rather someone, but he disregarded it.

But the worry was still there, fluttering around his mind, making him feel nauseous and chasing away him appetite. He gritted his teeth as he ignored it all. He is feeling very jumpy today, worrying and constantly looking South in an attempt to get a peek at his… brother.

'Of all people!' He thought, frustrated. He huffed and grumbled as he nibbled on the piece of bread. He set down the piece of bread on the ceramic plate when he realized that he is by no means hungry. He felt that, as if he were to eat anymore he might just puke. 'Ridiculous…' He thought, before stepping out of his cottage after shrugging on a coat.

He went down to town to get his usual newspaper from a store down the street. Old, dirty and worn down but the prices are good and... well, he preferred it there. The moment he saw the headlines in the newspaper, worry and desperation gripped him like an angry demon.

There, in bold yet elegant letters it read. 

**The Great Fire of England, Destruction of thousands of homes. Amount of death unknown.**

Simply throwing some coins on the counter and ignoring the cashier's frantic calling, he ran. Ran faster than the wind and jumped. And he disappeared in a flash of light.

* * *

Near Wales, the man, Scotland appeared in an alleyway with barely any disturbance other than the slight change in wind. He quickly pulled on a torn hat and buttoned up his coat before walking out from the alleyway, mixing into the crowd as if he belonged with them.

Something like this was a piece of cake for nations like him. They could blend into the crowd without anyone noticing their presence or they could even call the whole country's attention to himself with the flick of a finger. And of course, the pseudo-immortality. It is something like a curse, but yet at the same time it is a blessing.

But enough of their country nonsense, right now he has to find his two other brothers, Wales and Northern Ireland. He would need their help to find England, he would not do to scout the whole United Kingdom himself.

The only thing to worry about now is if they will put aside their grudge and help him.

* * *

Meanwhile, in an unknown place. A blonde haired man laid unconscious on the sandy beach. The scorching Sun is shining down on him as he laid face-down on the fine sand. His once perfectly white dress shirt is now torn and dirty, barely clinging to his form and leaving much to be imagined. His once expensive black trousers are now useless as they had become mere scraps that reached barely pass his knee. But the most eye-catching is the bloody red that is oozing into the once- pale yellow sand from his gaping wound. He had mostly healed thanks to his nation's current economic situation, but the gaping and half-burnt would not heal at all.

As if God had sent her, a lone female found England on the sandy beach. She gasped dramatically and immediately ran back to wherever place she came from to call for help. There is no need to hope for a quick rescue, not that nations could die as long as their country remain standing.

* * *

On the other hand, in front of Wales' house, Scotland was slowly but steadily getting more and more angry at his brother, Wales who ever since he had told him that he request his aid to find England, has been blabbering excuses after excuses to not to help him and in extension England.

"Oh no you...ye pumpin' bas! he is yer pumpin' brother or did ye coincidentally forgoat that fact? ah didnae raise ye brats tae become such...such fuckers!"* Scotland yelled at Walked, anger clouding his mind as he slowly reverted to using his own slangs. But his anger is quite justified, and so is Wales' dislike of England.

"A wnaethoch chi anghofio am y berthynas rhwng y ddau ohonom? Mae pob rhyfeloedd...nid yw'n amlwg ddigon?" * Wales shouted back in his own language and immediately slammed the door shut.

Scotland groaned and tugged at his hair in frustration, "What am I going to do now..even Ireland refused to help. England you really should be more in control of your monarch, look at what they've done to your reputation..." * Scotland sighed, and jumped, disappearing in a similar fashion as the way he came.

As soon as Scotland disappeared, the door was slammed opened as Wales snarled at nothing, in particular. "Now to find that idiot brother of mine...I would not ever help him again." He said and jumped, at the same time extending his senses trying to find his 'brother' England. Nations could not normally be sensed as they would possibly be hiding their aura, but nations with enough experience can sense it, such as Ireland.

* * *

Three weeks. Three bloody weeks of pain and hallucinations of torture. He has finally recovered enough to not feel any more extreme pain and to move. But he is not sure if he even wanted to move, or even do anything at all. He just felt empty, like there is no use in doing anything. Everything is reasonless now. 

Perhaps it is the fire, and the witch trial but he is visibly shaken. Sure, those people that found him had managed to nurture him back to health, in fact, he felt much better even but there is simply no motivation, no more drive in him. He is numb and he isn't sure which hurts more, being betrayed by his people or being burnt at the stake.

When he had recovered enough to think, another shocking thing came crashing in his face.

And it came in the form of a head of orange hair and a deceivingly smiling face.

"Ireland..." He breathed out. It is the first time he had spoken in quite some time and his throat ached just by speaking.

"Hiya brother." He said, but his words are dripping with so much poison that it made England shiver.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *- you fucking bastard! He is your fucking brother or did you coincidentally forget that fact? I did not raise you brats to become such...such fuckers! (Scottish translation)  
> *-Did you forget about the relationship between the two of us ? All wars ... it is not clear enough ? (Google Translation English->Welsh  
> *-No offence...?
> 
> The Great London Fire that swept through the central parts of London happened during Sunday, 2 September to Wednesday, 5 September 1666. It consumed 13, 200 houses, 87 parish churches, St Paul Cathedral and most of the buildings of the City authorities. The fire started from a bakery in Pudding Lane and spread rapidly across the city of London.  
> For more information: Wikipedia


	3. Chapter 3

'I'd say you've gotten yourself into some serious shit." he chuckled, noting the healing wound on England's midsection. He walked slowly, carefully towards England's bedridden form, like a predator stalking a prey and crouched down beside the bedside, his face just a few centimeters away from England's

England attempted to scowl, to brush it off and to bring up an impenetrable wall around his heart but he simply could not find the strength to do so. He found himself vulnerable to Ireland's taunts and stabbing insults, yet doing nothing about it. He simply laid on bed, staring at his brother.

Ireland almost flinched, seeing his younger's brothers dead eyes following his every action, tracing after every word. But...when has he felt so...guilty? He has never, ever felt like this before ever since he was young, when they would beat and call England the most degrading name they could think of. He attempted to push away those emotions, kicking it away with what that started their rivalry.

'He took mother's place. He killed her.' he thought stubbornly, but felt himself faltering yet again. 

Why is he still sore over her death, Albion's death? They are nations? It is bound to happen. When Albion disappeared, England took her place. It is the natural cycle of life, something none of them can escape.

He gritted his teeth and glared at England, "Don't think you can make me pity you, you disgusting  _thing!_ " he yelled, holding on to the memory of her fading form, crumbling in her eyes, and in her place is a blonde infant, England. He could still remember the burning hate he felt when he set his eyes on the infant, still so vivid and strong even after nearly a thousand year.

He raised his hand, pulling his fist back and struck without mercy. It will be like before, all the same as it always was. He could vent out his frustrations on that abomination and it would crawl back to its little hole and hide. Just like before.

A blurry image of a woman, a memory of him, Scotland and Wales circling the young child and his fist connected with the man's pale cheek.

* * *

" _STOP!_ " A familiar voice yelled and suddenly the beatings stopped. The weight on him was forcefully pried off and he felt the hold around his neck loosen and disappear completely. Nonsensical words flooded his ear drums, but his eyes are all too tired to even get a proper look at the person who interfered.

He remember that voice from his childhood and a warm hand, same as the one that is clutching his hand now and blotches of red.

' _When are you gonna stop bein' a coward an fight?!' a childish voice snapped at him, towering over his curled up form. The 'him' in that memory shook his head frantically, wincing when the large scar on the side of his cheeks stinging at the movement. 'If ya just sit there, ya ain't gon' a grow up. Ye wll be taken over, forced to be a slave or ever disappear!"  The young red-head yelled, growling angrily at being ignored and pulled his small form up._

_'We have ta fight. Fir ya freedom.' He said seriously._

_The 'him' shook his head again, 'But...I-I cant! I'am weak, I can't!" He cried out and attempted to pry off the hand that is gripping his._

_'Then ah will teach ya to fight._ Ah can't always be around to protect you, ya know?" 

England turned his head, the back of his older brother entered his vision. And Ireland's fuming face, hands clenched into a fist and preparing to jump at the two at any second.

"Scotland..." He breathed out.

"Hoo...ya finally woke up. I was feeling kinda awkward talking to a unconscious person." Scotland chuckled slightly but kept his eyes on Ireland, watching for any twitch of tensing of muscles that may imply that he would attack.

Before England can say anything more, he continued. 'Run if you can. Or...would you prefer to fight?" At that, Scotland glanced at him for a second before turning back.

The words from before rang in his head, and England let out a raspy laugh.

" _I am the bloody British Empire. Do you think that I will run?"_

His feet touched the wooden ground, and a large grin grew on his face. He combed back his messy hair, now long and tangled as he stood beside Scotland.

'One day I will have you under my rule.," He swore, glaring at Ireland.

Later when Wales arrived, he found his brothers sleeping around the bed. Beaten up, bloody with a few broken bones, judging by the odd angle of the limbs but content.

* * *

**If you expected a fluffly ending, I might just post another one soon. But this is what I think my fic would end. Ireland still dislikes England, and said man want the other to suffer so he split it in two. Wales is neuntral. Scotland has sort of love-hate replationship with England. He will aid him, encourage him but not coodle him.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> A witch-hunt is a search for people labelled "witches" or evidence of witchcraft, often involving moral panic or mass hysteria. Before 1750, it was legally sanctioned and involved official witchcraft trials. The classical period of witchhunts in Europe and North America falls into the Early Modern period or about 1400 to 1700, spanning the upheavals of the Reformation and the Thirty Years' War, resulting in an estimated 70,000 to 100,000 executions.
> 
> The last executions of people convicted as witches in Europe took place in the 18th century. In the Kingdom of Great Britain, witchcraft ceased to be an act punishable by law with the Witchcraft Act of 1735.


End file.
